The Sleepless Princess

Sharon had always loved fairy tales. Even in her twenties, she still believed in the magic of pink tulle, fairy wings, and unicorns. Her mother had always indulged her fantasies, keeping her safe from hags with poisoned apples and wicked stepmothers lurking in mirrors. And, as in every fairy tale, the princess eventually found her prince.

Barry was no knight in shining armor, nor did he arrive on a white horse—there were none to be found in Gillingham, after all. Instead, he arrived in a sleek black Lexus, whisking Sharon away after their grand wedding. Their honeymoon was as magical as she had always dreamed, and while they were away, a builder friend added a turreted tower to Barry’s modern home, complete with a spiral staircase, giving his beloved her very own fairy tale castle.

Everything was perfect—except for one thing.

Sharon could not sleep.

From the very first night, she tossed and turned in their luxurious bed, unable to find peace. The mattress felt lumpy, as though it contained not just a single pea, but a sack of them. Perhaps, she thought, Barry’s ex-wife had left behind a restless spirit, haunting her through the springs of the mattress.

Barry, ever the problem-solver, dismissed her worries. “Not to worry, princess—we’ll go shopping.”

A Saturday afternoon was spent bouncing from mattress to mattress in a grand department store. The sales assistant raised a disapproving eyebrow as Barry flopped onto memory foam and Sharon pressed her delicate hands against fine Egyptian cotton. He watched in amusement as his wife discussed thread counts with an expertise he never knew she had. They left the store having purchased the finest mattress, feather pillows, and a snow goose down duvet—the best money could buy.

Yet, that night, Sharon still could not sleep. The bed was too soft, the pillows too firm, the duvet too warm. Barry, blissfully unaware, snored beside her. In the morning, he kissed her forehead and left for work, while Irena, their housekeeper, observed her employer’s dark circles and weary sighs.

Days turned into weeks. Barry remained unfazed—after all, Sharon appeared to sleep peacefully every night when he stirred. But she swore she was awake, plagued by visions of glass coffins and lurking evil. Irena, ever practical, suggested an afternoon nap.

The feng shui article in Sharon’s favorite magazine claimed red was too stimulating for a bedroom. That evening, she sweetly suggested to Barry that they redecorate. He sighed, but gave in, allowing his princess to transform their opulent crimson room into a sanctuary of lilac and silver, complete with scented candles and Eastern art. The mirrors, especially the one on the ceiling, were removed.

Still, she could not sleep.

A visit to the doctor provided little help. The young, eager physician nodded sympathetically but simply handed her a leaflet on insomnia and suggested therapy. The pharmacist, however, was far more helpful—selling her a bottle of TV-advertised sleeping pills.

For the first time in weeks, Sharon slept soundly—but Barry, now accustomed to peaceful nights, found himself haunted by dreams of business failures and finance meetings. While Sharon slumbered in her lilac haven, Irena noticed his newfound exhaustion and, ever the thoughtful housekeeper, began leaving coffee and fruit for him each morning.

It was Irena, too, who pointed out the newspaper article that declared sleeping pills shortened one’s lifespan. Horrified, Sharon threw the pills away. She turned to natural remedies, drinking chamomile tea, trying Ayurvedic head massages, and soaking in lavender and jasmine baths—which, unfortunately, left her covered in an itchy rash.

She scratched all night, her nails digging into her now blotchy, irritated skin. By morning, Barry’s legs were covered in bruises from her thrashing. The high-thread-count sheets were ruined, and Irena was forced to send them to a charity shop.

In her desperation, Sharon adopted a turkey-and-milk diet, convinced that the sleep-inducing tryptophan would be her cure. But Barry had his limits. “Princess, turkey really is just for Christmas,” he groaned, pushing his plate aside.

Irena, now practically running the household, took over the cooking. She stayed late, ensuring Barry had proper meals, and sent extra money to her family back home in Georgia. She also subtly upgraded her wardrobe, her simple uniforms replaced with elegant, well-fitted dresses.

Meanwhile, Sharon slept during the day and wandered at night, her sleepless curse worsening. The milk diet caused severe allergies, leaving her sniffling and coughing. The lavender baths burned her skin. Yoga ended in injury when she slipped, tearing a shoulder muscle.

Barry, for the first time, truly looked at his wife. The woman he had married was barely recognizable—her once golden locks were thinning, her delicate skin marred by rashes, her elegant posture replaced by sluggish exhaustion.

She had become a ghost of herself.

One evening, he tried to reconnect. “Let’s have a cozy night in, just like old times.”

Irena prepared Barry’s favorite meal, and they settled onto the couch together. But Sharon could not sit still. The sofa was too lumpy, the room too bright, the TV too loud. Frustrated, Barry retreated to the kitchen, where Irena poured him a glass of wine.

The next morning, Sharon discovered a hypnosis CD that promised to cure insomnia forever. She tried it immediately.

For a moment, it worked.

Her eyelids grew heavy, her breathing slowed. But just as her mind drifted toward slumber, the recording ended, and her eyes snapped open.

Barry, meanwhile, was growing fond of Irena’s company. She was witty, intelligent, and kind—and not once had she complained of sleepless nights. She shared stories of Georgia, making him laugh in a way he hadn’t in months.

One evening, after a successful business deal, Barry invited Irena to celebrate over dinner. Sharon, left alone, saw Irena’s reflection in the mirror before they left. She looked like a princess, dressed in fine silk, her hair perfectly styled.

Something inside Sharon snapped.

When Barry and Irena returned, Sharon was collapsed at the bottom of the spiral staircase.

The paramedics arrived, startled by her wretched appearance—her bald patches, her sores, her wild, haunted eyes. Delirious, she murmured about wicked stepmothers and glass coffins.

Sharon slipped into a deep sleep, one even doctors could not wake her from.

Her wounds healed. Her hair grew back. But still, she slept—her story eerily reminiscent of one she had loved as a child.

For a time, Barry visited her bedside, but soon, he stopped coming.

After all, his real princess was waiting for him at home.